


The Twelfth Night

by ReneeMR



Category: Hghlander - Fandom
Genre: Hghlander, Historic Male, M/M, MacLeod - Freeform, Methos/Historic Male - Freeform, Methos/MacLeod - Freeform, Renaissance, methos - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-03
Updated: 2003-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:17:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReneeMR/pseuds/ReneeMR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos reminisces with MacLeod about his life during the Italian Renaissance.</p><p>Inspiration for this story comes from a real portrait. You can view it here… www.metmuseum.org/toah/ho/08/eustc/ho_29.100.16.htm</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Twelfth Night

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

NEW YORK CITY, METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART, THE PRESENT...

MacLeod looked at the painting. Then at Methos. At the painting. At Methos.

"It's you."

"Told you."

"When was it painted" The Scot studied the man in the portrait.

"Before you were born, MacLeod. Fifteen thirty-six." Methos looked at the museum catalog. "They have it dated wrong. Wrong title, too."

"'Portrait of a Young Man,' fifteen thirty," MacLeod read. "Bronzino." His attention was caught by the way his lover was staring at the portrait. *His* portrait.

"He was a superb portraitist. Mannerist. And a poet..."

MacLeod laughed. "Should have known. You have a 'thing' for poets, Adam."

"Then why the hell am I with you, Mac?" Methos grinned sardonically as the Scot mock-glowered.

Sometimes the Scot really did wonder what Methos saw in him. The oldest man on Earth. And like now, so youthful looking. It was all the Scot could do to keep from reaching out and ruffling his longish hair.

"Tell me about him?"

"Who?" Methos looked away from his contemplation of the portrait.

"Bronzino. He was your lover?"

"Yes. Briefly." Methos turned, and started away from the Highlander.

MacLeod trailed after him. Studied him. He waited until they were in the cab on the way to the restaurant for lunch to say anything. "Adam? Tell me about it?"

"Ah, Mac, it's a long story..."

 

FLORENCE, ITALY, APARTMENT OF BRONZINO, DECEMBER 26, 1538...

Methos sprawled across the end of his lover's bed and watched as the painter and his other companions shared the first of several bottles of excellent wine. A gift for the First Night of Christmas from Bronzino's patron, the Duke of Tuscany. Cosimo.

"Ah, you'll see, my friend," Gino said, "The Duke loves the Yule season. Why, even the meanest of his servants receive gifts from his own hand."

Methos raised an eyebrow at this. "Yes, I've always heard the Medici was a true gentleman. Even at a most tender age."

Pietro shook his head, and gave a little giggle. "Tender. The Duke--tender. Never, Doctor."

Bronzino unfolded himself from his favorite chair and went over to his lover. "Ah, but *I* have seen the Patron in just such a moment. He was quite taken with the portrait of my dear Matteo." The man gently ruffled the soft dark hair under his hand. "And even more so when he heard he is a physician. Our Duke has a great hunger for knowledge. Of all kinds." He grinned down at his English lover.

"He would like to meet you, Matteo. Come with us to the Palazzo tonight?"

"No. I have to be on the road to Pisa at first light." Methos frowned. It would be cold. He looked up at the painter when the man chuckled.

"My love, you're already shivering. Surely there's nothing so important in Pisa..."

Lara, the only woman in the apartment, scowled. "Bronzino, don't make it worse for the boy!" She shook her head. "I am quite fond of this young man." Truly. Despite her early suspicions. He was *English* after all. "Matteo has been good for you, my friend."

"Thank you, Lara," Methos said with a grin.

The old immortal sat up and leaned against his lover. "The Cardinal asked me to go, Agnolo. I told you weeks ago. What would you have me do? Tell him, 'Sorry Your Eminence, but my lover wishes me to stay? He cannot do without me.' I'm certain that would please him." He caressed the man's face.

"No, I know you have to go. But you must come back as quickly as you can." Bronzino pulled Matteo up and bundled him into a fur-lined robe. "Come to the fire and share the cheese. And these marvelous nuts from the New World the Patron sent along with the wine."

 

NEW YORK CITY, DOWN SOUTH CAFÉ, THE PRESENT...

The Highlander looked up from his piece of pecan pie. "You were with him for two years?"

"Oh, no, Mac. When I said briefly, that's exactly what I meant. I was less a physician and more a diplomat at that time. I had a scrupulous reputation for fairness." The ancient man looked down at his melted chocolate ice cream. His memories crowded around him. He sat back and let them tickle his senses.

"So, what happened after that? You went to Pisa and..."

"And it was six years before I returned to Florence. He shrugged. "I told you, I was good at what I did." He tapped his temple with one long index finger. "Never had to carry papers." Methos laughed.

"Mac, it was all very boring. Arranging marriage contracts, merchant business. Mundane things. I stayed out of the politics."

"What did Bronzino say when he saw you? You obviously hadn't changed."

"I never saw him after I went to Pisa that time."

The waiter interrupted with the check. Methos rose gracefully and put on his coat. "Meet you out front, Mac, I need some air."

 

FLORENCE, ITALY, PALAZZO MEDICI, DECEMBER 29, 1544...

Methos pulled his cape up around his ears, and made his way stealthily along the corridor that led to the galleria of the Palazzo Medici. He didn't normally traipse around strange Italian palazzo in the dead of night. Especially on the Fourth Night of Christmas. He should have been safely tucked into his warm bed after the night's feasting.

But this was when and where the man had insisted they meet. That he, Doctor Adamson, needed the information only he, Leonardo could provide. Something about poison. But the man hadn't said more than that. Methos had no idea if the man wanted to stop--or initiate--a poisoning. Or how he planned to get into the palace. Unless he was one of the servants? That thought chilled the ancient even more.

The old immortal didn't relish waiting all night in the cold, either. With luck his contact was already here. He huffed in annoyance. His frosted breath hung in the air before him. Sighing, he snuggled his nose and mouth into the collar of his heavy wool cloak.

Reaching the end of the hall, he paused. The door was ajar. Light shone within. This was most peculiar. Methos eased closer to the entrance and quietly pushed the door open.

The gallery appeared to be empty. Methos looked around. He went over to the candelabra. The candles were fresh. Someone had just been here. A chill ran up the old man's spine. Something wasn't quite right.

"Ah. Uh."

Methos looked down at the dagger that jutted from his chest. He heard shuffled running. Then nothing, as death took him.

 

"By all that's Holy!"

With a hitched, heaving breath, Methos revived. He looked up into the eyes of… "Your Grace. I…"

"I know who you are," the man replied. "Matteo. You're Bronzino's English physician."

"Ah. Yes." Methos sat up gingerly and coughed.

The Duke of Tuscany, Cosimo de Medici, narrowed his eyes as he looked the wounded man over. "You were dead."

"Um."

"You *were* dead."

Methos sighed. "Yes, Your Grace, I was dead." Now it would come. The cries of 'witch,' 'demon,' 'devil.' He thought of trying to run. But Cosimo was well-known for being able to defend himself. The ancient man sat up. Looked at the bloody stiletto the Duke held. "An assassin's weapon," Methos said softly.

"I noticed." Cosimo replied dryly. "So, physician, was the blade meant for you? Or for me?" The Duke offered his hand to the man he knew as Matteo--Matthew--Adamson. An English doctor and envoy. Friend of his friend Bronzino.

Methos studied the man. Although his title was Duke of Tuscany, he was, in truth a veritable king. But he was no despot. Quite the contrary. He knew that the Medici was interested in all learning. Was a tolerant ruler. Even of the Jews, who were being horribly persecuted all across Europe.

"I'm afraid, your Grace, I must presume you were the intended target." The ancient let the Duke take his hand and help him up.

He watched the man, warily, as he shifted his garments back into place and pulled his cloak closed.

The nobleman nodded. "My people heard there was plotting being done. That's why there's no hunting planned for this year`s Yule." The Duke shook his head. Looked around the galleria. "Who would have thought they would come into my home?" He sighed. Shook himself.

"Come, Master Doctor. My savior." Cosimo raised his hand to cut off any objections. "My library is much warmer. We can speak in comfort there."

Methos bowed to the inevitable. Followed the Duke to his 'den,' as his people called it. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad. The man had made no outcry. Hadn't called his guards. Hadn't even mentioned his being dead since he'd revived. As a matter of fact, the Duke seemed in rather good cheer for someone who had been the target of an assassination attempt.

"Your Grace…"

"Cosimo. You are to call me Cosimo, Matteo," the Duke said expansively. "Ah, here. Sit." He directed the man to a comfortable chair before the fireplace. Then he called for his valet. Gave him instructions. Took his own chair. "Now. Tell me."

Methos didn't even try to dissemble. "What do you want to know--Cosimo?"

The Duke laughed. "Everything, Matteo. Everything. Haven't you heard?"

Smiling just a little, Methos nodded. "Yes, actually, I had."

"Cardinal Gaetano?" The prince of the Medici shook his head. "Yes, I can imagine what that man says. He's a boor. A peasant. Unwashed, unlettered. He can't even recite the Latin of the Mass." The Duke smiled again. "Enough. Tell me what you are."

"I am Matteo--Matthew Adamson. An English physician trained at Heidelberg, in Germany." Methos looked at the nobleman for a long moment before he went on. "And I am immortal."

"Immortal?"

Methos was surprised to hear a hint of disappointment in the Medici's tone. "Er, yes. Immortal."

"Not an--angel, then."

"No. No, most definitely not an angel." Methos could barely suppress the mirth that was threatening to spill out. Then, without warning, he couldn't any longer. He began to laugh. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he managed to get out before he was overwhelmed.

Fortunately, the Duke was in a good mood. He waited patiently until his visitor calmed down. "So. I suppose I should ask if you're a devil. But I can't imagine a devil would die for me. Perhaps thrust another in the blade's path. But not suffer the pains I saw you endure."

At a nod from Matteo, the Medici went on. "I must deduce that an immortal is neither angelic, nor demonic."

"I am just like any man, Cosimo," Methos said quietly. "As human as anyone. I just cannot stay dead."

Before Methos could say more, the valet returned. Followed by several servants. Some bore large covered trays. Others carried in dishes and glasses. A table was quickly set for the two men. A veritable feast was laid out. Then the crowd disappeared. The ancient was impressed. "You have them well-trained."

"Thank you," the Medici replied. "But it's not training alone. They are treated as men, not animals, here. With respect. That respect is returned to me."

"A lesson all men in power should learn. But seldom do," Methos said quietly. Respect. Yes. That was exactly what the world needed. But respect was the first thing lost to power.

He leaned forward to watch as the Duke poured a thick brown beverage into a cup and passed it to him. Sniffing, he looked askance at the other man.

"It's chocolate. The Spanish brought it from the New World. Ellie swears it`s the nectar of God." Cosimo chuckled. "Some say it's womanish to drink it. But I say there's nothing wrong with chocolate. Go ahead. Try it." The nobleman took a drink from his own cup.

Methos did the same. Smiled. "I believe I must agree with the Duchess. Ambrosia."

"Good." The Duke took a plate and began to fill it. He motioned for Matteo to do the same. "Now, please, tell me all about your immortality, my friend? If you are willing, I think I can assure you of a job for as long as you want one…"

 

NEW YORK CITY, MAYFAIR MEN'S CLUB, THE PRESENT...

MacLeod turned to Methos. "You told him? Just like that?"

"What else could I do, Mac? He'd seen me dead. Pulled out the knife and watched me revive. But he was no terrified, superstitious peasant. Cosimo was a man of great learning. Intelligence. And he was lonely, I think."

"Even surrounded by his wife, children, servants, friends. He was, well, he was smarter than most of them. I guess I was a challenge," Methos said with a smirk. "He never knew when I was telling him the exact truth, or spinning a tale for him." Kind of what I do with you, Mac, the old man thought.

"Did you go to work for him?"

"Yes. My first job was to find the man who'd tried to kill him, of course. It was one of the servants. The fact that they had access to the palazzo was a dead giveaway. A paranoid delusional. He was convinced Cosimo had tried to seduce his wife. I packed them off to a farm a couple of hundred miles away. No more problem."

The Scot studied his lover. Why was he thinking there was more, a lot more, to hear? But not while they were walking down the street in New York City. Not even in the supposedly `safe' areas. Especially not when it was near freezing. He noticed Methos rubbing his hands together.

MacLeod looked around. Saw a small club. "Come on, let's check this place out." He grabbed his partner's hand and towed him across the street. They entered into a haven of warmth. Dark wood, leather. The smell of cigar and apple-wood smoke.

The proprietor greeted them, showed them to a comfortable booth. The immortals settled in. All around were the sounds of low men's voices. Darts hitting their target. The click and thump of billiard balls.

After their drinks had been delivered, Methos looked up at MacLeod. "Want to know more, I guess?" There was a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"You know I do." The Highlander grinned. "Tell me all, Methos."

 

FLORENCE, ITALY, PITTI PALACE, JANUARY 1, 1551...

Cosimo de Medici, Duke of Tuscany, looked up at the man who had died for him seven years earlier. "Matteo, I didn't know you would be back in time for Yule." The mortal nobleman rose and went to give his friend a formal greeting.

"Ellie," he said, turning to his wife, "look it's the Doctor."

Eleanora of Toledo smiled at the young man. Then blinked. Her eyes weren't so good, but she swore the man hadn't changed at all.

Didn't men have the best luck? She sighed.

"Doctor Adamson," she said cordially.

Methos bowed low and took her hand. Made proper obeisance. "Your Grace is looking lovely as ever," he said softly. "I've brought several treasures with me. I would be pleased to show them to you."

"Later, Mateo. You can show Ellie everything later." The Duke clapped the physician on the shoulder. "*I* want to show you around first."

Methos smiled at his friend. The great warrior-scholar was clearly excited to see him. And to show off the new Medici home. Eleanora had bought the Pitti Palace the year before. But this was the first time Methos had been in Florence in three years.

"Let's start in the gardens before it gets too late. Or too cold. It's been warm since Christmas. But you know how quickly the weather changes. Today it`s chilly again."

The ancient immortal followed the Duke outside. "Cosimo, you're like a child with a new toy," Methos said when he was sure they were alone. Wouldn't be seen or overheard. Then he and Cosimo embraced as kinsmen. "I've missed you, my friend."

"My life has been dull while you were gone, Matteo. Now, tell me everything. Everything."

"Well, I can't do that. There are reputations to protect, you know," the immortal said primly.

"Ah, yes." The Duke nodded. He'd only asked once about the physician's love life. Been treated to a delightful story about a young page in the French Court. He had blushed afterward. Whenever he looked at the young men of his household. He had badly wanted to ask Matteo if he had availed himself of their--company.

But he quickly decided it wasn't so titillating after all. What a man did on his own, well, was his own business. As long as his job was done. And no one was hurt. At least there were no bastards produced that way. He had said as much to Matteo.

"Very well, tell me what you can," the nobleman said. "What's really happening abroad?"

"Ah, so now I know the truth. You only want to hear the gossip!" Methos laughed at the reaction of the Medici prince. "Cosimo, you have not changed at all in three years."

The mortal shook his head. No. His friend was the one who never changed. They had once looked the same age. Now no one would guess that Matteo was the elder.

Methos, not noticing the Duke's demeanor, went on.

"You know things are not good in England? I have it on reliable authority the young King is dying.

"The Spanish are taking silver out of the Americas by the ton.

"The Jesuits are out to make Christians of the whole world. They've sent missionaries to the Japans…"

Methos went on spinning amusing tales about various events of the last three years. Until he suddenly realized it was growing dark. And he was freezing. He looked down at his hands. Shook them out. "Cosimo, may we go in now? Don't you want to show me the palace?"

The Duke had been lost in the world his friend was describing.  
"I'm sorry, dear Doctor." Without thinking he reached out and took Matteo's slender, long-fingered hands between his own. They were indeed cold. He held them firmly. Noticed for the first time that they were much like his own. *Very* much like his own.

A sudden rush of color stained Methos' cheeks. Cosimo had stepped closer when he took his hands. The old man held his breath. He'd never let the Medici prince know that he desired him. Not by word or action. He wanted to run. Hide until he got himself under control. But now, he had no choice but to follow the mortal man. Since he was still holding his hands.

They went into the palace. Into the warm and brightly lit haven of the Duke's study. Methos tried counting the innumerable candles.

Anything to take his mind off Cosimo. The fact that the whole place swarmed with servants. Servants ready to take their cloaks. Others with candelabra to light the way. Maids, footmen, guards. Everywhere.

The Medici took no notice of the others, or of Matteo's discomfort--if he had noticed it at all. He looked down at the hands he held between his own. He turned them over. Studied them as he would some unusual specimen of flora or fauna. Finally he looked up and caught his friend's eye. "Why didn't you tell me you fenced, Matteo?" He rubbed calluses on the doctor's fine hand that were unique to swordsmen.

"Oh!" Gods, was *that* what this was all about? "Uh…"

"Never mind. Never mind." The Duke called his valet to him. "Have the men prepare the salle d'arms, Alonso. I want to practice before dinner tonight." He looked over at Matteo. Then back at Alonso. "See that the Doctor has the proper clothes."

The valet nodded, called the other servants together. They all disappeared a moment later. Leaving the two men alone. Methos shook his head. Went over to pour two cups of chocolate.

Grinning at his friend, the Medici walked over to a finely crafted large chest. He rummaged around for a bit. At last finding what he wanted. "I have something I think you can use." He held out a pair of finely stitched burgundy leather gloves. "Ellie keeps me well supplied. I don't think she'd mind."

"Cosimo, these are much too good for me…"

"Mateo, please take them. My Seventh Night gift to you. You can't refuse."

"But, I have nothing to give…"

"You did. My life." The mortal reached for Matteo and hugged him again.

Methos returned the embrace. An embrace full of longing. And genuine love for the man. The warrior-scholar.

 

NEW YORK CITY, OLIVE'S ODDITIES, THE PRESENT…

"Wow."

"Yeah. Wow." Methos grinned. "Did you see that statue…?"

"Ass. I meant you and him. He was the model for Machiavelli's 'Prince.'"

"I guess. But he was my friend, Mac. Oh, he could be hard and ruthless when he had to be. But he was a strategist first and foremost." Methos stopped at the display of chess sets. Picked up a king that was carved out of rose quartz.

"Lopez developed modern chess in Spain, did you know that? When I got to Florence in 1561, I found Cosimo had gone mad for the game. And of course, he had no one near his caliber to play with."

 

FLORENCE, ITALY, PONTE VECCHIO/PITTI PALACE, JANUARY 5, 1561...

Methos was laughing as he walked along the Ponte Vecchio with his friend, `Cosi.' "Cosimo," he whispered, "you'll give away the game if you don't stop that."

"I swear, Matteo, if you had to steal these clothes, *must* they have been vermin-ridden." Cosimo Medici, Duke of Tuscany reached around to scratch his buttocks. Again.

"I did not steal. And they are perfectly clean, `Cosi.' They're just not the silk and linen you're used too. They're the very nice clothes of an upper-class servant. Your valet, to be precise."

"Humph."

"Well, *you* were the one who wanted to do this, remember."

"Yes. And I was wrong. No amount of money I save outsmarting the merchants is worth this…" The man stopped to scratch again.

"I agree. But you're here now. Ah, look." Methos pointed to a little shop across the way. The man was carving small figures.

"Is that a chess set, Matteo?"

"Yes, Cosi."

"Ah, well, I guess looking won't hurt."

The Duke forgot all about the discomfort of his garments as he stood and talked to the carver. The man was also a jewel-cutter. Silver and goldsmith. He entertained his customers as he worked. By the end of an hour the Medici had purchased several items from the man.

Methos had to literally drag the Duke to the next shop. He would have to complete all his purchasing before the merchants got together and realized how much the `servant' had been spending.

They were done by lunch, but the nobleman was caught up in being `Cosi-the-valet' by this time. He insisted on sending his purchases back to the Palace. Then he and Matteo would have the rest of the day free to roam the streets of Florence. "Look, that tavern, let's eat there," the man demanded.

So they did.

They ate. They drank. They shopped. Cosi ogled the women. Methos kept an indulgent eye on his friend. It was a good day.

It had to end, though. This was the Eleventh Night of Yule. There was an elaborate banquet planned for the evening. A costume ball after. The Duke and Duchess were host and hostess.

The Medici prince was in high spirits as he walked with his friend Matteo back to the Pitti Palace. He had outsmarted the merchants of the Ponte Vecchio. He had been *free* for the whole day. He had been with Matteo.

A wonderful day. He even thought it was amusing when Matteo made them sneak back into the palace.

Alonso was waiting with their regular garments, and they changed back quickly. "Were the packages delivered, Alonso?"

"Yes, your Grace. They are in your study."

"Good. Thank you Alonso, for everything," the Duke said gratefully.

"Matteo, I want to show you something, do you have time?"

"Always for you, Cosimo," Methos reminded his friend. Followed him into the study. He stood with his back to the fireplace, warming his hands, watching the man he had platonically loved for seventeen years. From a youth just coming into his prime, to a mature man. Strong. Powerful. The father of eleven children with a wife he loved. Methos had to turn away.

Eventually, the Duke found what he was looking for. He went to Matteo and placed a long, slender, cedar-wood box in his hands. "Open it," he said with a smile.

Methos did so. Nestled in a swathe of silk was a dagger. The ancient looked up at his friend. "This is too much, Cosimo," he said after a moment. It was a work of art. A miniature of the Ivanhoe he secretly carried. The sword he'd shown to the Medici once or twice. "I don't know what to say. This is such a gift…"

The Duke's smile was dazzling. "You're pleased?"

"Yes. Oh, yes," Methos breathed. He removed the dagger from its box. Tucked it into his belt. Turned and set the box on a nearby table. When he looked back, tears spangled his eyelashes. "Thank you, Cosimo."

"Thank you, Matteo," the mortal said quietly. "Now, stop this maudlin emotion. It's Yule. Be happy." He took his friend by the shoulders and shook him slightly. He pulled him close for a hug. To give him a familial kiss on the cheek.

Except…

Somewhere between the hug and the kiss, Methos felt the Medici tighten his hands on his shoulders. Instead of turning his head, the ancient only tilted it. Without thinking what he was doing, he stepped closer to the other man and slipped his arms around his waist.

Methos closed his eyes. Lips met. He expected the man to draw back in alarm. Disgust.

Instead. the gentle pressure increased. His lips were caressed and explored. Strong hands came up to cradle his head. He wanted to lose himself in Cosimo's embrace.

The ancient immortal took a step back. Then another. Looked into the Duke's face. "Thank you for such a great gift." He turned and swiftly left the room.

 

NEW YORK CITY, ADAM AND DUNCAN'S APARTMENT, THE PRESENT…

Methos put down the knife he'd used to slice the black olives and egg whites. "Mac, I need the Parmesan and cheddar grated, remember." He dumped the Italian dressing into the bowl and added the vinegar. Added the olives and eggs. Checked to see that the pasta was cooled.

"Mac?" He looked over at his lover. The man was staring back at him with a peculiar look on his face.

"Are you telling me--are you telling me you made a pass at Cosimo de Medici?"

"No. I'm telling you he made a pass at *me*. Which I did not take advantage of…"

MacLeod gave the ancient until a beat of three. "Then. Right?"

"Well…"

"I knew it," the Scot reveled in his knowledge of Methos' psyche. "Tell me. You know you want to."

 

FLORENCE, ITALY, PITTI PALACE, JANUARY 6, 1562...

Methos crossed to the table and poured a goblet of fine Flemish red. Carried it swiftly to the man who sat slumped against the pillows of his bed. "Here, drink." He stood back to see he was obeyed. It was the Twelfth Night of Christmas. But there would be no grand feast. No revelry at all in the Pitti Palace.

"I'm sorry, Cosimo. The Pope wouldn't release me from Rome. I came anyway, as soon as I heard you were ill." Methos took the empty goblet and stood looking at the man. He grabbed a shawl someone had left and moved to spread it over his friend`s knees. "Why don't I call Alonso to get you something to eat? And freshen this room. Remake the bed. Tend the fire…"

"Stop, Matteo." A strong hand grabbed his wrist. Held it firm. Drew the man closer, then pulled him to sit beside him on the bed.

Still holding onto his friend, the Duke looked into Matteo's golden eyes. "I'm not sick. I knew you wouldn't come if you knew otherwise."

"Oh."

"My cousin is…"

"An arse."

"Among other things."

"Cosimo, I should have been here this summer. Perhaps I could have--done something." Methos had been called to Rome to attend the Pope at the beginning of Lent. He had not heard of the plague in Florence until after Eleanora and the boy's deaths.

The Medici shook his head. "There was nothing to do. Nothing could have saved them. I was glad you were out of it, Matteo. I've seen how you are when you can't save a patient."

"Maybe, but I could have been here for you, friend."

"It's enough you've come now, Matteo. Methos." For the first time the Duke spoke the ancient immortal's true name aloud. The name he had whispered in his prayers for almost two decades.

"Cosimo?" Methos looked at his friend curiously. Realized that the nobleman no longer held his wrist. Had instead twined their fingers. "Cosimo?"

"Eleanora was my wife for two and a half decades, Methos. I was never unfaithful. At least, not--with my body…" The man took a deep breath and reached for Methos' other hand. Held it clasped tight. "God forgive me, but I have wanted you since the first time I saw your portrait. Even before I knew what it was that drew me to you. I was jealous of Bronzino. Jealous of that page in France. Jealous just thinking of you with another. Any other."

Methos didn't know what to say. Not even in his wildest dreams would he have thought--Cosimo. He knew he had to say something, though. He lifted his friend's hands that clasped his own and kissed first one, then the other.

Then he rose. Walked several paces away and turned to face the Duke. "Listen to me, my old friend. This is your grief talking. Ellie's been gone barely half a year. You have to mourn…"

"No. No. I have mourned, Methos. But I understand. You said it. 'Old,' indeed." With that, the mortal seemed to wilt.

"Cosimo, I didn't mean that. Truly." Methos went and knelt at the Duke's bedside. He looked up at him. "I want you too, Cosimo. That was why I stayed away all the time. So you wouldn't know."

"Why? Why didn't you say something?"

"Because of Ellie. And your children. Who you are. And because. Because you are a godly man, my friend. I would never tempt your soul."

Methos was surprised to hear the Medici begin to laugh softly. "Nonetheless, I was tempted, Methos. Sorely so at times. I couldn't even go to my own confessor. I had to seek out itenerant priests. What tales *they* would be able to tell."

"Still, no sin was…"

"But it was, Methos. I lusted for you in my heart. The sin is already made," Cosimo said softly.

The ancient cocked his head and smiled. "So the priests say. And they say that any sin confessed can be forgiven." Methos was silent for a moment. Then he stood and began loosening his garments. "You can ask forgiveness tomorrow. Or the next day. Next week…"

NEW YORK CITY, ADAM AND DUNCAN'S APARTMENT, THE PRESENT…

Velvet skin slid against velvet skin. Two voices moaned and groaned in pleasure. Bodies joined, rocked together in passion. Kisses were given and fervently returned.

When it all became too much, they let go and fell into orgasm…

 

Methos watched as MacLeod slept. Smiled as he caressed the birthmark on his lover's shoulder. The very same mark Cosimo had borne. And every other incarnation of his first lover.

Maybe one day he would tell his Highlander all.

One day.

Maybe.

End


End file.
